


All That Remains

by Calon



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explosions, Fear, Friendship/Love, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Athos, Hurt Flea, Hurt Porthos, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, The Court of Miracles, Whumps, Worry, Wounds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 19:32:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 10,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4449449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calon/pseuds/Calon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kink meme fill:</p><p>'The explosion rips through Paris.<br/>Huge heavy plumes of dust and long settled grime erupting into the warm summer air as muffled and desperate screams ring out, making even those in the Châtelet cringe, as hot, burning fires are set ablaze.<br/>From where the Cardinal is sat in the Louvre, he smiles.<br/>The court of miracles is no more.'<br/>What if the musketeers hadn't been able to prevent the Cardinal's men from blowing up the court? Would they survive the ordeals of what the must face? Or will they simply give into deaths beckoning calls.</p><p>Enjoy!<br/>xxx</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone!  
> Once again, I've fallen in love with another prompt I saw online today and just had to get it going!  
> This filler is hopefully going to be longer than my recent ones, as I delve far more deeply into the 'what ifs?' and 'character development.'  
> I really, really hope you enjoy! Any mistakes of errors are all mine! What can I say? ;-)  
> Please leave a comment or kudos!  
> All my love,  
> Calon.  
> xxx  
> Ooh and the next chapter will be whumped d'Art and Athos centered, I promise!

The explosion rips through Paris.

Huge heavy plumes of dust and long settled grime erupting into the warm summer air as muffled and desperate screams ring out, making even those in the Châtelet cringe,  as hot, burning fires are set ablaze.

From where the Cardinal is sat in the Louvre, he smiles.

 _The court of miracles_   _is_   _no_   _more._

Leaning over his intricate map of Paris, which is sprawled with every passage way and alleyway the city can hide, the Cardinal takes his quill and draws a dark, thick, black line across the small red area that signifies the court.

"Less mouths to feed." He utters under his breath. "Less pickpockets to thieve, less beggars to plead on every street corner and less imperfections."

The rumble of triumphant laughter that follows disappeared against the wind feebly and is dissipated altogether by the hollow wails of those trapped within the rubble of their homes.

***

Porthos comes round slowly, the piercing ringing in his ears and dull throb at the back of his skull, almost too overwhelming and he begins to pray for the mercy of unconsciousness.

But duty comes first, and as the memories of today's ordeals come back to the large man, he forces his eyes steadily open.

"'Mis?" He chokes out, layer of dust and filth clogging up in his red, raw throat. "Mis?"

A low groan accompanied by a whirlwind of Spanish curses a few meters away from him, alert Porthos of his friends whereabouts. Letting out a shallow sigh if relief Porthos sits up slowly, chalky dust, sliding off his leather jacket.

A sudden spark of pain flutters across Porthos' chest and he slumps forwards, only to cry out as his knee erupts with a bone deep stabbing sensation.

Gasping wildly for breath, Porthos takes note of his wounds:

 _Broken_   _ribs_.

_Dislocated knee._

_Possible_   _concussion_.

 _And_...

Porthos blacks out for a few seconds, managing to regain composure before he slams into the floor once more.

Buried deep within Porthos' side is a jagged, thick piece of wood, blood streaming from around it and pooling against his heavy breeches.

Porthos sucks in a deep breath and grapples at his shirt before yanking off a small part of it to apply pressure to the wound with a low and desperate moan.

"'Mis!" He chokes out, his eyes settling on his friend who's splayed out against the dusty floor, curled gently in a ball.

Sluggishly Aramis pushes himself up, the whole world swaying and juttering around him; sounds and lights swaying and merging together, the thin taste of metallic thickening the inside of his mouth.

"P'rth's..." He slurs, blinking heavily at the blurry figure across the room from him. "'Th't...you...p'th's?"

Before Porthos can reply, Aramis rolls over violently, choking up the contents of his stomach.

Once the retching is complete, Aramis attempts to push himself up again, only to scream out in pain as he places pressure on his left arm, hot, bruising pain exploding and restricting his movements entirely.

"Aramis?!" Porthos cries, fear clutching at his heart as his friend writhes against the floor, until finally his body gives in and he slumps back into unconsciousness.

Porthos stares at his friend helplessly, with hot tears in his eyes .

Relief swells over him slightly, however, as Aramis continues to breathe steadily.

Porthos slumps back weakly.

Fear begins to wrap around the large man now. For himself and also for his brothers. A constant and never ending spiral of unanswered questions spinning around his disorientated head.

 _What of Athos_? The man who had guided him through the darkest times and not once judged him.

 _What of Aramis_? Quite possibly his soul mate, the man he confided with for anything and trusted with his very life.

 _And what of d'Artagnan_? The foolish farm boy who'd snuck into his heart and made a home there. The boy who Porthos would sacrifice everything for should he have the chance.

_What of himself!?_

Alone, bleeding, his friends and brothers missing, their medic suffering from a sever concussion and broken arm, his home destroyed and countless killed.

Tears begin streaming down Porthos' face before he can register them.

_What of everyone?_

Sobbing weakly, Porthos turns his head to the heavens, praying for his brothers and, shamefully, for himself too. 

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!  
> Sorry this chapter was a little rushed...and that I still haven't mentioned all four of our beloved heroes...I will update again soon, hopefully before Wednesday!  
> Just want to give you the heads up for various injuries and a slightly graphic death scene for an unknown character. Please, do not read of this will bring up any bad memories, I'd hate for anyone to be upset by my writing.  
> Anyway, if your still up for it...here it is!  
> Enjoy!  
> All my love,  
> Calon.  
> xxx

Athos blinks.

The ringing in his ears growing steadily louder as he shifts against the dusty floor.

The agonizing thrumming of his head has him heaving, his empty stomach churning and tears stinging his eyes as the all too familiar taste of bile claws its way up the back of his throat, before it returns back to where it came from.

Athos blinks again.

 _It's dark_.

 _Very_   _dark_.

The older musketeer's heart begins racing wildly in his chest.

 _Where the hell_   _is he?_

Rolling over slightly, his nose brushes against a cold, craggy piece of rock and a flash of images burn before his eyes.

 _The Court_.

 _The_   _bombs._

 _Darkness_.

It doesn't take him long to put two and two together.

Athos blinks again.

Slowly and carefully, he sits up.

A sharp pain erupts across his chest and his ribs shift softly.

Athos groans.

His shoulder burns also, a deep, aching sensation spreading over his tender skin and he brings his hands up to feel the bone shift as his ribs did.

Tears spring to the man's eyes as he tries to pull himself up straighter only to realize his foot is buried under layers upon layers of heavy rocks.

Athos grinds his teeth and begins clawing at the walls of debri surrounding him.

Bracing himself for the entire wall to come crashing down, Athos covers his head. Willing the pain to go away.

But instead of being crushed to death, beams of light lurch between the rocks amd Athos let's out a breathy chuckle, relief swelling over him as he continues to claw at the debri.

He quickly looses all track of time, only focusing on the ever growing hole above him and the comfort of soon getting free.

Wriggling himself slightly he manages to clear the hole entirely, giving him a clear runway for his escape.

Leaving him with one, small sized problem. Frowning down his leg, Athos stares at where his foot should be.

Where it _should_  be.

Piles of melon sized rocks are sat expectantly over his foot, spanning just above his ankle and all the way down to his toes.

He shifts his foot experimentally only to cry out in agony as bright lights bubble before his eyes.

Panting raggedly he begins rocking the stones off, carefully with his one good bloodied hand, desperate to relive the pressure crushing down against his ankle.

Once the rocks have been cleared, Athos is panting, sweat dripping down his brow and burning in his eyes.

Steadying himself with his unharmed arm, Athos drags himself forwards with agonized grunts.

Exhaustion and pain all begin to take their toll on Athos, and by the time he's out of his rubbly grave, he slumps blissfully into unconsciousness. 

***

"Martin! Fetch the second search party! We need back up, now!" Treville yells, clutching a young woman who's suffered severe trauma to her abdomen, closely to his chest.

Martin's head shoots straight up, before he stumbles blindly through the desolate land they once called the court.

The girl in Treville's arms clenches desperately onto the man's doublet, her breathing shallow and eyes wide with untamed, raw fear.

"Just hold on. You're going to be fine." Treville reassures her, reigning in the shakiness threatening his voice.

 _He's lying of course, she has no hope_.

Yet, still, Treville stays with her. Holding her comfortingly until she draws her last breath and her eyes drain of any sign of life.

Tears prickle in the Captain's eyes, as he whispers pathetic apologies to the dead girl in his arms, gently closing her eyes with his scarred fingers and brushing the sweaty hair from her pale face.

"I'm so sorry." He breathes, taking in her young features. Her face reminding him all too much of his own sister, Madeline.

Once the physician arrives to aid them, Treville merely shakes his head.

Defeatedly he carries the woman towards the uniform lines of bodies lining the empty square, left untouched amidst the ruins of the court.

There are too many bodies to count, too many wails to identify, too many cries of pain to note and so many orphaned children sat by the bodies, that are draped in dirty white sheets which various priests circle, for Treville to properly register.

Turning away from the harrowing scenes before him, Treville turns his head to the heavens, unaware that he too, is making the same pleas that Porthos is; begging for his safety and the safety of his beloved men.

Treville blinks.

And the fires burn out.

***

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, this isn't the best chapter...I've had a pretty crappy week...been in and out of hospital like there's no tomorrow...and feeling absolutely awful...  
> Anyway...I made a promise a few days ago that I'd update before Wednesday...and well, here it is...sorry it's not too good and a little rushed...  
> All my love,  
> Calon.  
> xxxxxx  
> I'll try to get my act together...sorry again...

_"......d'Artagnan?!"_

The hoarse cry of his mentor and best friend, rouses d'Artagnan from peaceful unconsciousness with a jolt.

Swallowing convulsively to hold his stomach steady, he twists his head softly, trying to make sense of his surroundings.

Frowning, the boy shifts again, peering down only to gasp in shock.

"Atho..." His response is cut off with a horrific cry of pain, the world swirling before his eyes as blood erupts from his lips.

Gurgling and coughing, panic begins to tear at d'Artagnan, his body twitching and writhing pathetically under the rubble which presses down across his chest, blood leaking out slowly around the huge pieces of stone.

"d'Artagnan?!" The cry is closer now, more panic stricken, but closer."d'Artagnan!"

Choking back with a ragged and indecipherable howl of pain and the world suddenly begins to fade before his eyes.

"d'Artagnan!"

_Hold on..._

"d'Artagnan!"

_Eyes open..._

"d'Artagnan!"

_Stay awake..._

"d'Artagnan!"

 _Not long now_...

"A-Ath'sss." He rasps. "Ath'sss."

"d'Artagnan?"

 _Darkness_.

"d'Artagnan!!!"

***

 

Athos drags himself along, using the unsteady walls of the court halls to stabilize himself.

"d'Artagnan!" He calls again, his stomach rebelling against his movements but his heart urging him forwards still.

"Please! d'Artagnan!" Athos calls out desperately.

The sickening screams that begin vibrating around him, cause the older musketeer to stumble.

Cursing wildly, Athos forces himself forwards, screaming until his voice is barely above a whisper.

"d'Artagnan!" He yells, hoarsely, breaking down into a fit of sharp coughs.

Stumbling over yet another mountain of rubble, the musketeer, presses his ear up against the stones.

"d'Artagnan?" He tries weakly, the faint noise of gurgling and rasping reaching his ears through the wreckage.

"A-Ath'sss." Comes the faint reply. "Ath'sss."

"d'Artagnan?" Athos breathes, stunned into shock. "d'Artagnan!!!"

With a sudden surge of energy, Athos launches himself at the rocks, in attempt to free his protege. Only managing to shift a single stone before crying out in pain as he jolts his dislocated shoulder.

Sobbing with a mixture of helplessness and pain, Athos drops back on his haunches, weeping defeatedly over the rocks that suffocate d'Artagnan.

"No, no, no." He whimpers, spreading his bloodied good hand against the stones. "d'Artagnan....please... I...can't...I can't get you out...I...please...d'Artagnan..."

With a sudden cry of anguish, Athos wrenches his arm painfully, anger and injustice causing him to see bright flashes of red.

"I can't get you out!" He wails, before sagging against the stones. "Forgive me...brother...please...forgive me...there's nothing...nothing I can do...please brother..."

 _Forgive_   _me_.

***

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!!  
> Sorry I've been an awful person and not updated in absolutely ages - life's been a...little...hectic recently and I'm all over the place with work and every thing else from the shopping to dancing! (I actually can't dance anyway..) Ughr! But anyways...enough of my pathetic excuses!!!  
> I really hope you enjoy this chapter and I'm so sorry it's a little short and badly written, I'll get round to editing it as soon ad I've got the chance!  
> Anyway, once again please enjoy and feel free to leave kudos/comments!  
> All my love,  
> Calon.  
> xxx  
> (SPOILER: don't worry Aramis' arm hasn't made a magnificant recovery...I've got something a little darker in store for him...muhahahahaha....;-) !)

Aramis blinks owlishly, his head buzzing and limbs seeming to sink into the floor beneath him.

"'Mis?" Someone calls distantly.

It's the voice he could never and would never ignore.

 _Porthos_.

"'A'mis...op'n your...ey's..." Porthos croaks, his voice so very far away.

Aramis blinks owlishly again, and this time, he opens his eyes properly. Searching for Porthos in the distance.

Only he's not that far away. He's literally a few meters in front of him.

Aramis sits up abruptly.

"Porthos!" He exclaims, registering the man's impossibly pale appearance, injured side and gash on his forehead instantly.

Porthos smiles weakly. "S'okay..." He slurs, his head rolling slightly against the wall behind him.

Aramis fails to breathe.

Surging forwards and pushing the searing pain in his arm to the back of his mind, he takes the larger man's face in his good hand.

"Porthos." He repeats breathlessly. "What-How-you?"

Porthos rasps out a laugh. "'Xplosion...you...h'rt yer arm..."

Aramis nods, swallowing convulsively to avoid looking down at his mangled limb. Instead he uses his good had to feel Porthos' forehead.

"How do you feel?" Aramis asks him, his expressive face laced with concern.

"C..c...cold..." Porthos shudders, although his forehead is coated with sweat.

Aramis bites his lip.

"Okay." Shifting his weight slightly, the marksman probes Porthos for any other wounds.

He takes note.

_Slight concussion._

_Fever._

_Dislocated knee._

_Three..no two broken ribs...one not far off._

_And a shard of wood implanted in his side._

And then right before Porthos' bleary eyes Sharpshooter becomes Medic.

Aramis wraps his arm in a makeshift sling, using the material from his cloak to hold the injured limb in position.

He then sets out to gather his sword which had been thrown across to the other side of the rubble room. Picking it up he manages to begin a small fire and leaves his blade to heat.

Retrieving his water skin from his snapped belt he gently washes Porthos' face and chases away the infection threatening to settle in the gash against his forehead, for now at least.

Propping the older man up with his own weak body, he manages to set the larger man's ribs and lay him down on his back, using his doublet as a pillow.

Forcing himself to take a few steadying breaths, the Spaniard begins tending to the wound at Porthos' side, thanking the lord than the man's too weakened by fever to fight back.

Aramis knows he has to act now or allow his friend to succumb to gangrene. Wrapping his trembling fingers around the piece of bark, the sharpshooter gently guides it out. Its not long, but wide and by the time the whole shard is removed, Porthos has lost consciousness.

_Thank God._

Aramis scrambles back over to his now glowing red sword and carries it back over to the still form of Porthos.

Steadying the blade over to bloodied wound, he presses down.

Those screams still haunt his nightmares.

***

"Captain?"

No other cry could make Jean - Armand Treville shiver like this one did.

Turning stiffly around and composing himself, the Captain came face to face with Constance Bonacieux, and his heart clenches.

Her dress is torn from scrambling over debry and her eyes are already red from awaiting tears as she moves silently towards him.

"Constance..." The older man says softly, moving to take her trembling hands in his.

"Where's my lodger, Captain?" She demands, her voice wavering slightly.

Because she already knows where he damn well is.

_She just wants someone to tell her._

 

When Treville hesitates, she asks again.

"Where is my lodger, Captain?" She grinds out.

_She needs to hear it._

_Why won't he just say it?!_

_She **needs** to hear it!_

_...Needs to feel it._

Treville shakes his head and the brave Constance Bonacieux caves in.

Burying her head against the Captain's shoulder she begins sobbing like a child.

Part of her is unsure why, but the rest of her already knows.

_Constance Bonacieux has... **had** fallen for a Gascon farm boy who wishes... **wished** to be a musketeer... _

Shoulders shuddering and choked sobs breaking for her lips, Treville held her steady, swallowing the thick lump forming in his throat as he too began accepting the fact that his best men likely perished in the explosion.

But then a burning ember of fire flicks upwards inside him and he clutches Constance even more tightly.

"We will keep looking." He says sternly, unsure if whether it's for his own benefit or for hers. "We will find them."

Constance sobs even harder.

_She doesn't need false hope!_

Pulling away slightly and holding her gaze sternly he repeats it again. "We _will_ find them. I promise you, Constance, all is not lost."

The wind howls past them both and whispers in their ears...

_Or is it?_

***

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay.This chapter has been a long time coming! Enjoy!  
> All my love,  
> Calon.  
> xxx

Athos comes round hazily, his head throbbing and cheeks soaked with salty tears.  
  
There's a small hand squeezing at his shoulder and he gruffly tugs it free.  
  
The last thing he needs this morning is his brother pity especially if he's drunk so much he's had an emotional breakdown.  
  
 _But then again..._  
  
Athos frowns.  
  
Because he's not at home, he's not drunk and that's not Aramis' hand on his shoulder.  
  
Athos spins his head round, his eyes landing sharply on a small boy.  
  
He's straggly looking; torn clothes, coal stained face, big green eyes, bare footed.   
  
He gasps, startled by Athos' sudden movements.  
  
"Hello." Athos rasps, his throat clogged with soot.  
  
 _Why...?_  
  
"You a musketeer?" The boy asks.  
  
Athos nods slowly.  
  
The boy smiles and huffs a sigh of relief. It is at this moment that a much younger girl peers from behind his legs.   
  
She too is straggly looking; her thick black hair matted, deep set green eyes weary and strained, scarred face...  
  
Athos holds back a choked sob as he suddenly remembers where he is.  
  
And he's definitely not home.  
  
Jolting off the pile of rubble he'd settled on, Athos staggers backwards, crying out and collapsing as his ankle crunches awkwardly.  
  
"Monsieur?" The boy tries, his eyes growing wide as he follows the man's gaze to the mountain of rubble. "Monsieur?"  
  
"My..." Athos coughs, "My friend..." Extending a trembling hand he points at the collapsed ceiling.  
  
The little girl gasps.  
  
The boy gapes.  
  
And Athos bows his head in defeat.  
  
"There are other men." The boy says quietly and Athos' head snaps up in response.  
  
"Musketeers, I think. Mama said she could hear them, that they're searchin' for us..." He trails off.  
  
Athos nods quietly. "C'mere." He says softly, gesturing to the pair to come sit by him. "Now...my ankles a little bust so...do you think you could get as close to those musketeers as possible?"  
  
The little boy nods excitedly. "Yes, sir..."  
  
"Good." Athos smiles weakly. "And could you call out for them as much as possible? Ask for Treville and say Athos needs his help?"  
  
The boy nods again. "Yes, sir!"  
  
Athos chuckles raspily and withdraws his knife blade from his good boot.  
  
"Take this." He says, watching warmly as the big takes it with awe. "Don't go too far and stay away from any unsteady ground, understood?"  
  
The boy nods again.  
  
"Like a mission?" The boy asks timidly.  
  
Athos nods with a smile. "A mission."  
  
The boys scuttles off into the gloom, using the small beams of sunlight breaking through the ruins to navigate him back to where he began.  
  
Athos coughs once more, accepting when the little girl snuggles up against him with sudden boldness.  
  
"Your friend..." She says quietly. "Is he a musketeer too?"  
  
Athos swallows convulsively to prevent the tears from rolling.  
  
"Yes." He manages. "And the greatest of us all."

***  
  
---


	6. Chapter 6

Aramis watches Porthos’ sleeping figure from where he’s propped up against the remaining wall. After a brief and unsuccessful search for an easy exit, the Spaniard had given up. He sighs sadly. There was no way he could manage to carry Porthos out through the various tiny escape routes he had located. Tunnels so small even on a good day, Aramis would be reluctant to enter them, let alone on a bad day. They were utterly hopeless. A feeling Aramis hasn’t endured since his experience in Savoy; surrounded by his dead brothers, alone, concussed and…hopeless.  

All they can do now is wait.

And wait they did.

Aramis hazards a glance at his arm and sucks in a breath. He didn’t look long enough to certify but the Sharpshooter is almost positive he could see the bone peering from beneath the skin. He knows deep down that an infection would be imminent and the likelihood of keeping his arm or life was slim. But as it is, Aramis can’t even bring himself to care. Instead his eyes remain on his unconscious brother and his fogged mind continues to tick over how he’s going to get him out.

Sliding his back up the wall, Aramis crosses over to his friend and places his good hand over the man’s sweat- slicked forehead. The medic tuts under his breath and goes to retrieve his water skin in the hopes of offering his brother some comfort. Only when he readies to pour some more onto a ripped piece of his shirt he uses to mop Porthos’ brow, no liquid is present. Cursing crudely and tossing the empty water skin across the floor in a fit of rage. He winces however when Porthos stirs. Crumpling to the ground Aramis bites into his shirt sleeve to stifle his frustrated cries and hiccups into the material. The taxing effort of holding back his tears burns his lungs and jostles his sore ribs. Still riled up the Spaniard slams his good arm against the wall uncaring of the pain the movement sparks in his broken arm and slumps to the ground.

_They were going to die here._

_He could feel it._

***

 

When Athos regains consciousness, unsure of when exactly he lost it, the little girl who found him is snuggling tightly against him. She’s shivering violently and watching her brother as he tries to shift some of the stones.

Athos blinks owlishly at the pair and shucks of his jacket, handing it to the child.

“Oh good!” The boy beams, lurching around the rocks and peering at Athos through the dim light. “You’re awake! We thought you weren’t going to wake and then we’d have to leave your lazy bones behind like Mama.”

Athos shudders a little at that. He’d figured that the children were unlikely to leave their mother unless, well…

“No,” He croaks, helping the little girl secure his jacket on. “I’m still here.”

It was more of a reassurance for himself that the pair.

The girl smiles sheepishly at him and shifts her weight off his side, realising that her added pressure is likely causing him unnecessary pain.

A few moments of silence sail by and Athos desperately tries to regain his senses.

 “I’m thirsty.” She whispers, self-hugging herself as her brother plonks himself down beside them. “I want to go home.”

Then there’s that dreaded crack in her voice that drops a stone in Athos’ stomach. Before he knows it the child is sobbing violently and her brother is desperately trying to soothe her.

Athos opens and closes his mouth helplessly before scooting closer to the child. “Now, now,” He tries feebly and places and arm on her shoulder, “there’s no need to cry. In no time you’ll be safe and warm, maybe…maybe the King himself will request you meet him since you saved his Musketeer Lieutenant and his latest recruit, and you’ll be able to feast at his banquet hall?”

A watery laugh bursts from her lips and she wipes her eyes a little frantically. Having caught on to Athos’ plan, the little boy jumps in to help. “An’ we can eat some of those pasts-pastr-pastri…” He frowns in frustration and his sister hiccups on another laugh.

“Pastries?” Athos suggests with a soft smile. “And what flavour would you have?”

“Chocolate!”  The girl bursts startling the pair and Athos chokes back a laugh at the utter wonder in her eyes.

Silence falls again and Athos watches the young girls face frown in confusion. “What is it?” He asks worriedly.

“Nothing…it’s just you…called you’re friend,” She gestures towards the pile of rocks and Athos’s heart sinks. “You called him a recruit but you said he was a musketeer…”

Athos nods and swallows around the lump in his throat. “Yes, d’Artagnan is a Musketeer in all but name. He will one day achieve more than anyone would have anticipated…” He can’t continue any further without losing his composure. Sighing heavily he quickly changes the subject. “Which reminds me, how did your mission go?”

The boy wrinkles his nose and puffs out a breath. “I went back to the place I told you about an’ there were musketeers talking…only part of the tunnel had fallen in and I couldn’t get through. I tried shoutin’ but they couldn’t hear…I…I’m sorry…” The boy bows his head in shame and Athos watches as all hope of chocolate pasties and survival drain from the siblings faces.

“It’s okay.” Athos tells them. “We will get out of here.”

_He could feel it._

***


	7. Chapter 7

Treville sighs heavily as his eyes scan the final fires of the Court as they slowly fizzle out of existence, leaving him standing in a Ghost Town. Fallen buildings and corpses litter the ash coated floor signifying what Treville would call Hell. Distantly he can hear the faint cries and frantic voices from over where medical tents have been set up.

The Captain scrubs his face with his hand, his heart aching at the thought of his four best men being trapped beneath the ruins.

Small hands appear and wrap a blanket over his shoulders and Treville turns to find Constance smiling faintly at him. She looks awful, he notes; her eyes red from tears, her hair disheveled and dress torn and bloodied.  “They’re serving broth at the tents.” She whispers, her voice still hoarse from the ash and crying.

Treville nods sadly and turns back to scanning his surroundings, Constance’s presence calming his nerves.

He could understand why she and d’Artagnan were made to be together. They were both fearless and borderline stupid when it came to loyalty and stubbornness. Despite how many times Treville told Constance she should go home to her husband, she refused and instead spent her time helping the medics tend to the wounded and the musketeers clear the rubble away. The men all knew her well and looked out for as she worked beside them, keeping her updated on news about the various search parties.

Treville sighs again.

“Captain!”  Beniôt cries across the rubble, startling the man in question and irking him to no end.

Treville turns quickly and heads towards the musketeer, Constance following slowly behind. “What is it?” He demands impatiently.

“We think we’ve found them!”

***

Porthos’ heart lurches out of his chest as he comes round, his whole world tilting on axis as a wave of nausea strikes him.

But what scares him even more than that, is the slumped form of Aramis laying mere meters before him. “’Mis?” He chokes, pawing weakly at the floor in an attempt to touch his wounded friend. “’Mis!”

There’s and air of panic about his voice now and Porthos can’t help but whimper as he notices Aramis’ shallow breathing. Closing his eyes and desperately trying to calm his racing heart, Porthos gently nudges himself towards his friend, crying out in pain as his shoulder is jostled.

Grunting and swallowing convulsively, Porthos moves again, this time managing to isolate the movement in his shoulder and drag the pain down to a more manageable level.

With trembling hands Porthos gently touches Aramis’ temple and tries to rouse him. “Mis? ‘Mis, you gotta wake up, I need to make s’re you’re okay.” Carefully the larger man rolls the Spaniard over and pulls him onto his lap with a series of curses and grunts. “C’mon, you bastard, you ain’t leavin’ me now, not after all we’ve been through. Oh god ‘Mis this is all my fault…please, just…without you…Jesus ‘Mis what would we do, eh? We’d all get ourselves killed that’s what…and who’s gonna give us advice on women, hm? Who’s gonna play the idiot in every single situation and preen over his ‘romantic hero type’ hair every five seconds?" Then quietyly. "‘Mis….don’t die…”

A dry chuckle makes Porthos start and Aramis blinks up at him with bleary eyes. “I, do not preen dearest Porthos…I merely..” He stops suddenlt as the sound of muffles voices sift through the rocks around them.

“Hello?” A voice calls out and Porthos and Aramis stare at each other.

“Is that-” Aramis begins in stunned silence.

Porthos nods and swallows thickly before calling back. “Over here!”

The sound of thundering footsteps make Aramis close his eyes as hot tears fill his eyes.

_They’d been found._

“Porthos?” A voice called from what sounded like the right side of the fallen walls.

“Yeah!” Porthos cries back, mirth in his eyes as he heard the voice tell the others to get Treville.

“Is it just you?” The voice asks.

“No, Aramis is here too. He’s hurt bad.” Porthos shouts back.

“It’s not a competition, Porthos.” Aramis coughs weakly and Porthos shakes his head at him with a grin.

“Yes it is, now shut up.” He dismisses as the voice, who has now introduced himself as Gerard a musketeer who works indirectly for the King and explains how they’re going to get them out and send through a medic to assess their current state.

Porthos smiles to himself and turns to Aramis, surprised by the Sharpshooters silence, only to find that the Spaniard isn’t conscious….or breathing.

***

 

 

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

d’Artagnan gasps and chokes back to consciousness, his lungs searing and head throbbing like the aftermath of a late night drinking. Calming his racing heart by closing his eyes and breathing shallowly, d’Artagnan reigns himself in and begins to clear the fog that is his mind. He _has_ to focus as he has no idea how much time he has left.

Faintly he can hear murmuring above him, a familiar voice carrying between the stubborn rocks that entomb him. Focusing on the distant aristocratic ring and emotionless tone said voice possesses, d’Artagnan is able to clearly identify it as Athos.

A wave of hope crashes into him and he begins croaking his mentors name in a desperate attempt to get his attention, only to be hit by a sudden tsunami of dizziness as his lungs scream at him for breathing too suddenly.

“’Thos!” He tries, fear clutching his heart at how breathless he’s suddenly become. Deep down the Gascon knows that the sickly metallic taste of blood at the back of his throat that gurgles with each breath, the sensation of thick dried blood resting on his chin and the taxing feeling on his lungs every time he took a breath all mean certain death. However, if he is going to pass he wants to be with his brothers. And as selfish as it may sound he wants them to comfort him and listen to what he needs to tell them before he leaves.

Tears prickling in his eyes, d’Artagnan tries again with a new found motivation. “Athos!” He chokes, a little louder this time.

Silence ensues and d’Artagnan closes his eyes hopelessly with a whimper…only…

“d’Artagnan?”

There it was.

A mere word called out in question and a sudden weight is lifted from d’Artagnan’s crushed shoulders.

“Athos?” He whispered a smile playing on his lips.

“Oh God! d’Artagnan! Can you hear me? Jesus…d’Artagnan we’re going to get you out….I….How are you?” Athos splutter, his head pressing up against the rocks as the little boy, named Bernard and his sister, Elaine , begin shifting rocks.

d’Artagnan lets out a pathetic laugh which sounds more like a whine at the friendly sound of his mentor.

Swallowing his emotions down d’Artagnan clears his throat gain. “Fine.”

“Don’t lie,” Athos retorts in frustration. “Tell me the truth.”

“Chest.” D’Artagnan gasps after a moment’s hesitation. “Can’t move…”

He listens as Athos orders someone to do something and the shifting of rocks around him ceases while footsteps echo away.

“Ath’s?” He questions, praying desperately that the man hasn’t left him.

“I’m here, d’Artagnan. Keep talking to me.” Athos replies calmly and d’Artagnan relaxes once more.

“Ar’mis? P’rth’s?” d’Artagnan mumbles, his words becoming hard to from.

At his mentor’s silence d’Artagnan closes his eyes and swallows around the lump in his throat.

“Are they dead?” He asks weakly.

More silence and d’Artagnan can practically feel Athos’ discomfort. “I-I don’t know…”

 _Probably_ , his mind unhelpfully provides, _and so are you._

“We will find them.” Athos growls vehemently and d’Artagnan knows all too well that his determination will only be short lived.

Letting his eyes shut once again, d’Artagnan turns his mind to Constance. His final thoughts tainted by the sound of a commotion above him, yet he doesn’t fail to imagine her face just one, last, time.

***

 


	9. Chapter 9

“Aramis?” Porthos breaths out on a whisper, his heart thumping in his ears as his eyes focus on the Spaniards lax face. “Aramis!”

“Porthos?” Gerard calls in concern, hearing the man’s distress.

Porthos blinks and takes a shaky breath as his fingers move to the Sharpshooter’s neck.

_Nothing._

“We’re sending a medic through now.” Gerard calls, the concern in his voice still present as Doctor Delcroix clambers through the nearest hole in the wall. “Porthos?”

But Porthos can’t speak. Instead he just stares down at the man in his arms and shakes violently. “’Mis?” his voice cracks as he stokes Aramis’ sweaty locks from his face.

Because this _can't_ be happening.This _isn't_ happening. Aramis is not dead. Aramis cannot be dead. Yet the world seems duller all of a sudden, as if a vital source of light has been drawn from Porthos' life and replace with a dull numb sensation that encases his body. "'Mis?" He asks again, brokenly. And then it hits him. It's like a tidal wave; rushing and burning as it wraps and iron fist around his heart and threatens to rip it from his body. It drowns him in seconds in a tangible feeling of hopelessness and guilt. A feeling of rage and unfairness. And they all mix together forming nothing more than one emotion...numbness. Because there is nothing without light and without nothing there is no light. And  for Porthos, Aramis is his light and he is the nothing.

_He is nothing._

It's _incredible_ how one simple event can crash one's entire existence in a mere matter of unraveling moments. A single last breath or last stutter of a fluttering heart can suddenly make it hard to think, hard to breathe, hard to _function_. Because you, and you alone suddenly mean _nothing._

We all end like this, Porthos realizes. Leaving a zone of destruction in our wake simply by not existing anymore. Causing so much pain even as a mere corpse made only of empty vessels and useless organs with not an ounce of life buzzing through our souls.

Because we mean, _nothing._

And Porthos suddenly hates the man, _his best friend_ , in his arms for making him finally understand this concept. Yet the hollow feeling of lost love still throbs in his heart which dulls this feeling greatly, which Porthos is grateful for.

“Porthos, I assume?” Delcroix questions as he appears near the man, his heart lurching as he notices the body in his arms. He gently places a hand on Porthos’ arm in a comforting act. “Can I see your friend please, Monsieur?”

His mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, Porthos allows Delcroix access to the Sharpshooter because he can’t bring himself to let him go.

With old, calloused fingers the medic places his finger against Aramis’ neck. “Put him on the floor.” He demands suddenly, shocking Porthos into doing so without hesitation. Placing his hands over the musketeer’s chest, Delcroix begins pushing his hands down, pumping his lifeless heart desperately. “Come on, come on.” He mumbles under his breath as he feels the man’s ribs give under the pressure. “Come on.”

With an almighty gasp for air, Aramis’ body bucks upward his eyes going wide before shutting once more, his whole body going limp.

Leaning over the Spaniard, Delcroix sighs with relief as he feels steady breathing against his cheek.

“He’s breathing.”

 Porthos grips Aramis’ hand blubbers like a fool over his friend, causing the Doctor to smile slightly.

“We need to get him out of here.” Delcroix mutters. “He’s not out of the woods yet.”

Porthos who still seems frozen in stupor, nods vigorously. “Can you walk?” Delcroix asks gently, squeezing the man’s good shoulder.

Porthos thinks about this for a few moments before shaking his head. “Get ‘Mis out first…”

Delcroix sighs heavily and closes his eye. “Fine.” He says frustratedly. “Help me get him up.”

With joint effort and a lot of pain on Porthos’ behalf, he manages to help the medic steady Aramis’ limp body at his side, with the Sharpshooters arm secure around his shoulders and his own arm around the wounded man’s waist, Delcroix half drags the unconscious Spaniard to the hole through which he’d entered.

As planned, the musketeers on the other side slid a stretcher between the craggy opening. The men on the other side helping Delcroix lie Aramis down, some of them wedging their way halfway through the hole (which had since widened due to their efforts) to make the transition as smooth as possible.

Once secured they pull the stretcher through and bring Aramis out to safety.

Briefly through semi-conscious eyes and clouded vison, Aramis makes out fuzzy faces around him as cold air washes over his face and sunlight burns through is eyelids.

A blanket is thrown over his dirty frame and a woman’s hand latches onto his.

Through his fogged haze he squints up at the woman in confusion, already feeling the dregs of unconsciousness pulling at his every fibre.

“Isabelle?” He asks on a whispered breath.

But Isabelle simply ignores him as more faces and conversations bob above him. Aramis frowns deeply.

He watches as Isabelle disappears from his view and all he’s left with is the bitter coldness in his chest.

“Isabelle.” He mumbles before darkness overcomes him.

_Isabelle._

***


	10. Chapter 10

Athos desperately begins clawing at the rocks in front of him with his one good hand, his other arm clutched to his chest as his fingers begin to bleed profusely and his heart thumps wildly in his chest. “d’Artagnan?” he calls, his voice wavering as another set of crumpled rocks rolls off the pile. “d’Artagnan? Talk to me, d’Artagnan!”

Heavy footfalls cause Athos to look up as Bernard and Elaine come running back.

“There’s a way out!” Bernard cries, his eyes wide with excitement. “The rocks ‘ave moved, there’s an opening that will lead out to the square!”

Athos closes his eyes in a brief prayer. “We need to get him out.” Athos explains, gesturing to the rocks. “I can try and carry him there and then you can get help.”

Both Bernard and Elain nod quickly before sitting down beside Athos and clawing at the rocks. After what feels like hours of painful struggling, a hand appears from under the rubble.

Athos gasps suddenly and halts the others. “He’s here! Don’t move the rocks.”

As expected, as Athos gently peels the rocks away from around d’Artagnan’s arm, a small cavern opens around the dusty figure. Carefully, as not to cause the rocks to cave in, the older musketeer shifts his weight to not jostle his foot and uncovers d’Artagnan’s face. Tears threaten to spring from his eyes and he gently cups the Gascon’s dusty face.

“d’Artagnan?” he asks softly, wincing as the boy wheezes in response before his eyes flutter open.

“’Thos?” He croaks, a smile spreading over his face.

“Yeah.” Athos grins back, tears gathering in his eyes as his voice trembles with relief.

“Safe?” The Gascon asks softly, choking around the rocks still on his chest.

“Safe.” Athos clarifies, gently brushing the boy’s hair from his eyes, pretending not to notice the blood streaking his chin. “We’re going to get you out of here, okay? We’re going to get out.”

Swallowing thickly, d’Artagnan allows a short nod and prepares himself as Athos begins shifting the rocks off his chest with the help of both Bernard and Elaine who keenly introduce themselves to d’Artagnan whilst doing so. It soon becomes apparent that despite this condition the Gascon is still popular amongst little children, something Athos admired about him greatly.

Athos leans in to remove another rock however d’Artagnan suddenly cries out and his hand freezes. “Okay, okay.” He soothes gently as d’Artagnan grunts through the end of his overwhelming tidal wave of pain. “d’Artagnan stay with me.” He guides him, squeezing his shoulder gently as the pain finally eases. “Good?”

d’Artagnan hums in response and braces himself as Athos shifts the rock once more. Before long the majority of d’Artagnan’s chest is clear, allowing his chest some relief. However when Athos stops shifting rock, the Gascon’s heart sinks. Looking down he can see three monstrous rocks crushing down against his ribs, impossible to move between a one-handed Athos and two small children.

The boy can feel Athos’ self-loathing rolling off him as it dawns on him that there is no way he can get d’Artagnan free. Wetting his lips, d’Artagnan gazes up at his mentor with a stubborn fire in his eyes. “Get them out, Athos.” He growls. “Get the children and yourself out.”

Athos opens his mouth to argue back however d’Artagnan silences him it a glare he’d picked up from the man himself. “Get out.”

A distant rumble as more rocks begin shifting in the distance cause Athos to swallow thelump in his throat. “d’Artagnan…” Athos whispers brokenly, his voice breaking as he gazes at his dying friend. “I won’t…I can’t leave you…”

d’Artagnan pouts at him. “Athos, go. They,” he gestures with his head towards the two pale looking and exhausted children, “need you.”

Athos growls frustratedly at the unfairness of the situation, but sets his jaw and nods.

“I will get you out of here, Charles d’Artagnan.” He says forcefully and d’Artagnan nods lethargically.

“Be safe brother.” He murmurs as Athos staggers to his feet, young Bernard helping to steady him. “Be safe.”

***

Athos sinks back into his silence as he staggers against the blinding pain in his foot, his ribs jerking and shoulder screaming at him as he moves. He refuses to accept that he has abandoned d’Artagnan and instead focuses on not placing too much weight on Bernard’s shoulders.

Elaine is trailing before them both, looking increasingly pale and drawn.

_How had he not noticed she was getting ill?_

“There.” Bernard grins, signifying to where the exit it. It’s a small slit in the rock, a little lower than Athos’ height but certainly wide enough to fit him through. Elaine giddily rushes through, despite Athos’ calls and disappears from view. Bernard, however, stays loyally by his side and helps Athos through the exit.

Athos almost sobs with relief as they continue down a crumbling corridor and into blistering light.

He drops down to his knees and Bernard keeps a hand on his shoulder. Elaine appears again with five musketeers; Francois, Bertrand, Clement, Maurice and Pierre.

“Athos!” Clement cries, as Francois pulls out his water skin and washes the mans face. “Bloody hell.”

“d’Artagnan’s back there.” Athos hurries to explain as they help him to his feet. “He’s stuck…”

“Maurice!” Clement orders as they begin to move Athos towards the medical tents. “Get Treville, we need a search party down there immediately!”

Maurice sprints off without a question and Pierre lead Bernard and Elaine ahead to the medical tent.

“We thought you were dead, Athos.”  Clement breathes out, shaking his head. “We thought you were all dead.”

“All?” Athos questions suddenly. “Aramis and Porthos, too?”

Clement shares a concerned look with Francois. “Yeah, they got Aramis and Porthos out maybe a day ago now” He pauses. “Aramis isn’t doing too good and last time I saw them, Porthos had started running a fever.”

Athos barely hears him finish. “They’re alive.” He whispers and the pair nod incredulously.

“Yes, Athos.” A voice confirms and their heads shoot up to find Treville standing before them, looking breathless after having run all the way to find them. “It’s good to see you.”

“Captain.” Athos bows his head slightly, the corners of his mouth turning upwards as Treville gently claps him on the good shoulder. “It’s good to be back.”

***

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm Back BIT-GUYSSS :D  
> We have some fever addled, slightly 'I-haven't-slept-in-a-while' writing with an odd twist and ceilings! So forgive me if it makes little sense!  
> There will be more Porthos, Aramis and Athos in the next chapter, so sit tight until the end of next week!  
> Thank you so much for your love and support!  
> I hope you enjoy!  
> All my love,  
> Calon.  
> xxx  
> P.S Please pray for my soul- my final set of exams are next week and I need all the help I can get!

d’Artagnan lazily tilts his head and gazes idly at the ceiling above him. There’s light entering the cavern from somewhere to his left, perhaps a small hole in the walls structure, he can’t move to look so he simply assumes that’s why everything is much brighter.

The ceiling, he notes, is a sort of dusty white; the type of old, neglected linen that seems to be the only thing Constance is too busy to ever properly wash…

Constance. A soft lilting voice hums the name inside his head, each syllable rolling off it tongue like the way the seas laps against the shore. It takes a while for d’Artagnan to notice that voice is his.

Constance; fiery hair, blazing eyes, milky skin…pretty…very pretty…

Ceiling.

It’s white. There seems to be some form of tapestry lining the corners…images of horses perhaps. D’Artagnan thinks he can spot a soldier somewhere in there too…or a face…

He isn’t sure. What would a farmer know about tapestries anyway? Wetting his lips and blinking to stop his eyes from becoming too dry, the Gascon smiles a little; watching the dust spiral down towards him from the ornate ceiling above him…the very ceiling that could collapse on him at any given moment.

D’Artagnan chuckles a little, the noise grating against his lungs and hissing past his lips, it would be a rather beautiful ceiling to be crushed by.

Aramis would agree, d’Artagnan thinks. Aramis appreciates all beautiful things. He can remember Aramis taking him to a lake outside of Paris, a place he used to go to after Savoy. A place to mourn. That was beautiful too. Not just the sweet serenity the place offered…but the ability to weep without an ounce of judgement or comfort being offered. Aramis just sat there. A presence which spoke volumes without the need of a single action or word.

Aramis would often speak of beautiful women to. Both in physical appearance and on a more emotional level. d’Artagnan always envied the Sharpshooters way with words. His ability to unlock the beauty within a woman and experience the blooming process of finding one’s true confidence. That was beautiful.

Aramis; hair worthy of jealousy, a sharp witted and charming humour, sunbathed eyes…

Ceiling.

There are areas of burnt out ceiling and d’Artagnan isn’t sure whether the blasts themselves caused the damage or whether these ancient walls have in fact dealt with more pain and atrocities than it first appears. Sounds like Athos, the voice giggles in his ears and d’Artagnan agrees. The façade of calm Athos harbours is something the Gascon will never possess, but always admire.

d’Artagnan never really understood how such a burnt and scarred man could demonstrate such love and compassion to those around him. A man willing to put his life on the line for those in search of justice. A man who would cut off his own sword arm for a brother or a stranger without a second thought. The world owes Olivier d’Athos…and yet all he does is give…

D’Artagnan suddenly feels angry.

The injustice is almost as putrid as the taste of blood on his tongue and the sweat clinging to his shirt.

Athos; bent, noble, dangerous…

Ceiling.

_This is getting boring now._

_Sleep is good._

_Don’t sleep._

_Sleep kills you._

_Takes you._

Somewhere in the back of his mind he can hear snoring. A snoring that is so ingrained into his mind that he almost fails to recognize it at first. Great snorting heaves of breath, similar to that of a dying beast, a sound that could only mean Porthos.

The one of them all that always seems to be able to sleep anywhere. Be it the floor or a tree. d’Artagnan smiles. Takes things as they are, Porthos does. Not a picky man. Humbled and accepting. Generous but greedy. A friend d’Artagnan would be lost without.

Porthos; loyal, fearless, ruthless…

“Kid, you only get one shot at this life, only one.” Porthos rumbles, a look in his eyes that d’Artagnan can’t read. “If it comes down to it, the only stuff you really need to live that life is a bed, food, fine wine and a bunch of friends, and you’re the happiest person in the whole of France.”

But you need a ceiling too, d’Artagnan notes.

But d’Artagnan’s ceiling looks a lot dimmer all of a sudden. The edges of his vision dulling slightly.

_Oh._

But he’s not ready yet, he tries to argue, _I don’t want to leave…_

But he’s already drifting away…

A song of brothers and blood and love and loss humming in his ears.

 _I didn’t get to say goodbye_ , he whimpers, and the world ignores him once again.

Because goodbyes are never as good as they claim to be.

***


	12. Chapter 12

Porthos groans as the weary medic prods at his shattered ribs, gritting his teeth to stop himself from lurching at the man. After said medic had insisted he lie down in a separate tent from Aramis, of whom he was perched against his bed a hand intertwined in his companions, Porthos had already taken a great disliking to the man.

Treville had had to calm the larger man when he burst into their tent, having found a barely conscious Porthos staggering threateningly towards the confused Medic. The Captain had almost stumbled over himself when his eyes had fallen on Porthos, immediately demanding the pair be moved to somewhere quieter and further away from the epicentre.

Once they had been moved, Treville had asked the Medic to examine Porthos whilst two other nurses washed Aramis’ bloodied face and hair for further examinations. A single look at the Marksman’s mangled arm, splinted and tied to planks of wood and covered in dampened cloths, had told Treville that Aramis harbored little hope for the future. Yet, it was still something he refused to properly acknowledge.

Porthos grunts at the Medic as his bony fingers touch a relatively tender region and Treville shakes his head fondly. “How does it look?” He questions, as the Medic moves back to where his medical tools are strune out against the table, Porthos’ eyes following the man grimly.

The Medic turns and blinks blearily at the Captain. “We’re looking at multiple fractured ribs, a treated puncture wound in the abdomen; sever bruising to his left side, shrapnel in his upper left thigh and a concussion. We also can’t rule out the risk of infection, however. Luckily the shrapnel which had embedded it in his side was removed professionally and cauterized efficiently, so little treatment will be needed other than regular cleaning. I wish for him to take some opiates and eat something to keep his energy up. We’ll watch over him for the next couple of days.”

“What of Aramis?” Porthos asks almost immediately and Treville gawps at him in disbelief.

The Medic seems unphased. “His arm we will try to save. If however gangrene sets in we will remove it immediately, but yet again the risk of death will s **t** ill be incredibly high. Personally I would have removed it at the scene…however his body is too weak for such an operation. Again a few broken ribs and bruising is also present…however…” The man pauses at the look of sheer hopelessness on the two men’s faces, “it’s the head trauma that most concerns me. Pieces of shrapnel are embedded within his head, beneath the hair. These pieces of glass, wood and rock will continue to travel closer and closer to his brain unless we can remove them soon. I have only seen this once before; a man in Calles. They called him the ‘dead man walking’.” He explains slowly. “The chances of survival are bleak, I’m afraid, and we’ll need to remove his hair and remove the pieces on order to save his life.”

Porthos stares at the man emptily. “What happened to the man in Calles?” He asks although he already knows the answer.

The Medic simply lowers his head sorrowfully and the larger man slumps against the bed, burying his head in his hands.

Treville rests his hand on Porthos’ shoulder comfortingly, glancing down at the unconscious Aramis who had now been cleaned and tucked up in his cot. _He looks so fragile_ , he notes, _so small; a shadow of his usual, vibrant self._ Treville’s heart shifts in his chest. “Thank you, Monsieur.” Treville murmurs, granting the Medic his leave. “That will be all.”

The Medic bows slightly. “I’ll be back in the morning for the surgery.” He pauses at the tent’s exit. “He’ll be in some of the best medicinal hands in Paris, Sir.”

Then he’s gone.

And someone else appears, panting and wheezing in the doorway.

“Gerard!” Treville exclaims at the sight of his dirtied Musketeer. “What is the meaning of this?”

“It’s-Athos, Sir…” He gaps. “They’ve found Athos!”

***


	13. Chapter 13

Later that evening, Athos stumbles into Porthos’ and Aramis’ tent. It’s dark and there’s a small fire burning off to his right as he enters. While his ankle is still burning with every step and his head is still spinning from the strong opiates he’d been forced to take. It occurs to him as he makes his inside that he doesn’t actually have nay authorization to leave his bed at all, and a burst of adrenaline surges through him at the realization.

Porthos is already awake and staring disbelievingly at his friend.  Athos looks awful, and he knows he does; fever ridden, still dirtied and exhausted, yet still the mere sight of him brings a broad grin to both men’s faces.

“’Thos.” Porthos breathes, rising unsteadily to his feet and staggering towards his brother, throwing his arms around him and unceremoniously causing them both to groan in pain and slump against a spare cot close to the entrance.

The two laugh breathlessly, overjoyed at being able to see each other once again. Although their blissfully reunion is suddenly cut short when Porthos notes d’Artagnan’s lack of presence. His eyes turn pleadingly towards Athos’, the question dying on his lips.

“He’s still trapped, but there are doctors with him.” Athos turns away heartbrokenly, replaying the Gascon’s last words to him in his mind. “Aramis?” He asks quietly, glancing over the room to the sleeping form.

Porthos looks down and shakes his head minutely, triggering a dire silence that fills the room. Slowly, Athos rises to his feet and shakily limps towards Aramis’ cot.

The Spaniard’s brow is coated with sweat, his body trembling minutely under the sheer pressure of his raging fever. But what really breaks Athos’ heart is the quiet whimpers slipping from the man’s lips as various nightmares spin behind his closed eyes.

Dropping into the chair set up against the Spaniard’s bed and clasps his hand in his own, dropping his head against the mattress helplessly.

***

Maybe an hour later, the pair were bundled around Aramis’ bed either fast asleep or simply dozing precariously on their chairs, when Constance rushed in. Skirts bundled in her hand, blood covering the front of her dress, dirt plastered over her face with trails cut into the dust from her tears and her hair loose and wild, she all but fell onto the trio.

Immediately Athos assumes the worst, the floor suddenly undulating under him and sounds growing fuzzy. “Constance-” He chokes out, gripping her hand to steady her as she sways on her feet.

“They won’t let me see him,” She gasps, a sob clawing its way from her throat as she covers her mouth with her trembling hands. “I-I want to see him…b-b-ut they won’t let me see him…they won’t t-tell me h-how he’s doing-I-”

Athos rises to his feet slowly and wraps his arms around the sobbing woman as Porthos drapes a blanket over her shoulders and guides her to a chair, Athos now holding her hands firmly. “Hush, now Constance, breathe.” He tells her calmly, rubbing his thumbs over her knuckles. “d’Artagnan is okay. Treville would tell you if something major was wrong, wouldn’t he?” He queries, watching as her brow unfurls at the statement and nods slowly. “Now, you need to get some rest. Working yourself to exhaustion will in no way help d’Artagnan, in fact I think it would make him quiet upset to see you so distressed.”

Constance wipes her eyes miserably and offers Athos a watery smile. “I’m-I’m sorry.” She sighs. “It should be me looking after you.”  


Porthos chuckles as he slowly sets up a bed for her across the room, mindful of his injuries. They then let Constance wash and change in a secondary medical tent and have some patrolling guards fetch them some food.

Constance gratefully eats before regaining her composure completely. She begins by distracting herself with washing the various cuts on Aramis’ body before checking both Athos’ and Porthos’ temperatures. She helps them to bed and promises to wake them after an hour, but only even considers rousing them after four.

“He’ll be fine, Constance.” Porthos later remarks as the pair sit before the fire, Porthos’ hand intertwined with Aramis’, a bottle of brandy in his other. “The kid always is.”

Constance gazes sadly into the flames at questions what exactly went wrong for them to end u[p in such a dire situation, and from his cot Aramis’ eyes flicker open a little before closing again, his friend’s name dying on his lips before he can even regain his bearings .

_No hope._

_No life._

The darkness sings, and Aramis lets go.

***


	14. Chapter 14

“Good lad, d’Artagnan.” The Physician hums as the Gascon continues to wheeze through the pain. “Just keep your breaths steady.”

d’Artagnan glances helplessly towards the Captain who responds by clasping the boy’s hand a little more tightly with a soft encouraging smile. Another rock is cleared by two other men, and d’Artagnan cries out in pain as his chest is released suddenly from its confine. The Captain gently hushes him and wets a cloth as the Physician probes the Gascon’s chest in fear of the lungs collapsing, and wipes the boy’s face soothingly.

Eventually d’Artagnan manages to puff through the pain, tears streaming down his gaunt face, and is finally prepared for the final rock to be removed. Nodding shakily to the men, d’Artagnan gives them the go ahead to begin the removal.

Captain Treville looks on in concern and turns back to the young man laid out before him.

d’Artagnan wets his lips. “Athos?” He rasps, his lips trembling slightly.

“Treated and hopefully resting, lad.” Treville smiles back, brushing some of d’Artagnan’s sweaty hair from his face.

“’Nd P’r’ths…A’mis?” The Gascon grunts, his eyes rolling in his head a little, spurring Captain Treville into gently moving his head to rest on his lap.

“Both safe and alive the last I saw of them.” He replies softly, wincing as the men begin to release the final rock, watching as d’Artagnan’s face contorts in pain.

A smile graces the young man’s features, however, when the rock is finally freed. “They’re alive…” He whispers, a tear slipping from his eye and a wide grin across his face.

The Physician is already probing the rest of d’Artagnan’s body when he pauses and seems slightly torn for a moment. Treville frowns at the man’s abnormal behaviour and raises his eyebrow in question.

However, when he looks back to the young recruit in his arms, his heart all but stops.

Now unconscious the Gascon is wheezing in breaths, through bloodied lips that are tinged with vibrant blue.

“His lung has collapsed, get him out now!” The physician bellows, sparking the two other recruits into action immediately with a flurry of curses and pleas. Messily a wide plank is slipped beneath the Gascon’s stiff frame and his body is dragged from the wreckage; the entire time Treville’s eyes focusing on how gaunt and pale the Gascon appeared, with dark bags hanging under his eyes and hiding in the hollows of his cheekbones, lips tainted blue and a string of pale red blood drooling from them. He looks dead. He is dead.

In Treville’s mind he can already see the frail coffin, Athos’ trembling hands gripping to a dark green bottle, Porthos’ denial and raging eyes and Aramis cold hands and broken gaze.

“Captain!” The cry rips the older man from his darkened haze and back to the situation at hand. Blinking in confusion the Captain gazes at the Physician who is gripping his arm tightly. “Captain, help us get him into surgery.”

Nodding numbly, Treville rises from his knees and pulls himself together; helping the men carry d’Artagnan from the unsteady cavern and into, the now, cool night air. “Steady.” He warns them as they stumble over a few loose bricks.

Ahead of them the Physician continues to rush towards the main medical wing, summoning various people as he goes.

As softly as physically possible, the three of them help lay the now slightly conscious d’Artagnan out against the medical table whilst the Physician preps his tools. Treville almost faints with relief when Lemay enters shortly after. A short nod of acknowledgement between the pair seems to release a heap of tension from his body.

“Constance?” A soft voice heaves by the Captains side, and the man turns around in disbelief at the weakened Gascon. Gripping the boy’s hand the Captain tries to maintain his calm. “I want…Constance…please…”

Treville closes his eyes brokenly and presses d’Artagnan’s hands to his forehead. “I’ll-I’ll-”

The words die on Treville’s tongue and the light in young d’Artagnan’s eyes does too.

***


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